


Paperweights

by samcatburglar



Series: A Scale in the Breeze [4]
Category: Slayers (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Marriage, Pining, Slow Build, idiots to lovers, lovers sharing one brain cell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23830396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samcatburglar/pseuds/samcatburglar
Summary: Filia makes the mistake of walking into a couture bridal show on her way home, finding herself in quite the spiral over a certain mazoku. Val learns to scheme from an early age.
Relationships: Filia Ul Copt/Xellos
Series: A Scale in the Breeze [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055669
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Paperweights

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not continue this with Xelloss' perspective, but for now, Filia is a messy dreamy bitch and she's valid. A continuation of the imaginary "Everyone Is In Love with Filia ul Copt But Her One Repressed Brain Cell Is Oblivious to It All: the Saga" fic I have in my head.

Filia hadn’t known what a “trunk show” was until the local tailor practically yanked her arm off while she was walking home with Val. _It’s a couture designer from the city,_ she’d said. _She brings her collections all around the region and she chose this village! **My** shop! My humble little shop! Lady Filia, you **must** come and see! Bring your boy, come, come!_ The dragoness had blinked in confusion, but considering she was a professional window shopper at this establishment, it wasn’t very hard to convince her — and Val, a professional onlooker to his professional window shopper mother, let his ears go benignly deaf to her promises of _I’ll only be a moment!_

He doesn’t mind. Mama let him bring his favorite toy to the shop today, and he’s already beginning to fiddle with the large red spheres at the end of his stick. Filia absentmindedly rests her palm against the top of his head, genuinely intending to only look, not to try on. Couture, after all, is on an entirely new level of expensive. But as she looks up at the banner across the counter, the words “bridal fashion” streak across her gaze, and Filia feels her heart rise directly into her throat as a politely desperate protest.

 **“** Oh, no, Miss Flora, I–”

“I know, I know, Beatrice d’Cantria isn’t anything to sneeze at, _and honestly too rich for my blood_ , but just have a look!” Flora squeezes Filia’s hand with hearty reassurance. “There’s no hurt in just having a look! Even just for the artistry of it, it would be a shame if you missed it! I know how much you like fashion, Lady Filia, you would so appreciate this level of design!’

Filia doesn’t quite know how to respond to such a genuine compliment, and the truth of the matter is, she’s already caught sight of a ribbon of cream silk and is too curious to respond. Flora knows that look. Smugness squints in her eyes. “Let me know if you need anything!”

And just like that, Filia and her son are alone amongst rows and rows of breathtaking bridal gowns. Filia, the lover of fine things and delicate artistry, is immediately pulled into their spell. She gives each dress its due attention, the high necklines, the detailed embroidery, the woven beads, all tailored so finely that the wooden mannequins on which they rest seem to come to life with a joyful delicacy all brides should have.

_She wonders if she would look the same._

The longing is inevitable. It moves with her every step, and guides her hand each time it reaches to trace along the silk, the crystals, even in some cases the _fur_. A winter wedding, what would that be like! Cold, to be sure. She would prefer spring and all its fresh buds, and her bouquet could match the sprigs around her and –

Xelloss is there. That’s inevitable, too. He butts his way into her daydreams as infuriatingly as he always does, but nevertheless, Filia’s dreams tumble into one another at a pace she is powerless to stop. As she reaches forward to let lace glide in between her fingers, she wonders if he would think she looked pretty. Stupidity and girlishness and ridiculousness and greediness and naiveté aside…could she take his breath away? Would the flowers in her hair be pleasing to an eye that always searches for something _new_ , something _exciting_?…Or would it just be another stupid dress. Different color, same stupid Filia.

“Getting nostalgic, are we?”

Filia’s expression shatters with a gasp, and her hand draws away from the ribbon in one sharp movement, scalded by her own panic. The brown-skinned woman before her carries a quiet but casual regality that would no doubt denote her status as the supposedly famous Beatrice d’Cantria herself, and Filia finds herself slack-jawed with awe. Beatrice smiles, warming dark brown eyes and somehow making the golden jewelry adorning her person glow even brighter. It takes Filia a moment to register her question.

Nostalgic? For a wedding dress? Nostalgic implies a memory, and a memory implies an event. And she hasn’t gone through a ceremony, and she hasn’t partaken in a formal exchange of vows followed by a kiss. She can’t have that, and she knows it. It’s no one’s fault. Shockingly, it’s not even Xelloss’ fault, because it’s just a ritual, and it draws too much attention. A hard swallow grips her throat. She has to think of Val, she has to keep him safe, why is she _here_ , why did she _agree_ , why did she let herself _go!_ Why did this woman _assume…!_

“Oh no, I’m– I’m not–”

She trips over her words, and as she does so, she catches Val’s wide golden gaze from where he hangs off her leg, which in turn causes the pieces of this unfortunate and awkward situation to fall into place. The dressmaker, too, seems to have caught on to her own mistake, but before she can say anything, Filia is desperately quick in her feeble attempt to regain control. Her voice pitches high and her laughter is tinny with nervous energy. “Imean yes! Yes, it’s…I remember it like it was yesterday! Aheh!”

Filia is lying and both women know it, but Filia has never been good at lying, and she doesn’t seem to be on the track to learning how to be a good one any time soon. She couldn’t hide an emotion if her well being depended on it, and considering how much repression has warped her psyche, it clearly has depended on it. Many times. Beatrice gauges the ample-hipped and Valkyrie beauty of a woman with a careful kindness – she had made a mistake in assuming the she was married, the mutual understanding of which is obvious, but Filia flicks her gaze up towards the designer with a silent plea that asks, _Let me have this. Let me have this dream, if only for a moment_. Beatrice, being a professional in handling all ranges of fragile romantic hearts, obliges.

“One always does,” she answers. Her voice is deep and earthy, immediately grounding, which works to her advantage when dealing with nervous brides, want-to-be or otherwise. “What did it look like?”

Filia blinks. “What did it look like? I’m sorry, what did– what did what look like? **’**

“Your dress, love.”

“O-Oh! yes, of course, my dress!” Filia’s cheeks continue to flare crimson with both embarrassment and with shame, panic high in her throat. “It was…! Well it was…" Her mind’s eye slips easily down into a centuries old dream, forged of girlish _i wonders_ and _what ifs_ , woven as adolescent hands ran across the ancient texts outlining the ceremonies and rituals she was required to learn as a priestess, and both her features and her voice begin to soften.

“…it was an a-line dress, with a…with a long draping train that had some…very small lace trim along the hem, and…I mean the dress itself wasn’t too complicated in terms of design, really, the only places it really had much to draw attention was the bodice, and even then it was just…more lace, heh!”

Filia continues to paint a romantic picture of what is very obviously not a real dress. Her voice is too dreamy and her gaze is too far away, lacking the immediate spark of a memory but with all the specificity of a long yearned-for vision. The dressmaker knows this. She has much experience with dreaming, lonely maidens. Although this one doesn’t look lonely – it’s worse. She **__**_has_ someone, but they’re either gone or they’re unattainable, for nothing else could inspire the kind of ache this young woman holds in her blush.

The fact that she has a child makes this pain much more _bitter_ than sweet. Time and time again, Beatrice concludes that men do not deserve their brides.

“It was just…elegant. I want it– ” Filia stumbles through another mistake like a bull in a china shop. “I _wanted_ …it…to be elegant. No beading, no crystals, just…just a lot of lace design, that way there can be intricate patterns without really assaulting the eye. Does that make sense?”

“Of course, love. I do this for a living. You've simple tastes but a heart for fairytale romance.”

“Oh I…y-yes, I suppose so!” She doesn’t know whether that is an insult or just an observation, and that lack of knowledge just prompts her to prattle on like nothing happened. “Make no mistake, I love my jewels as much as the next girl, but! On my wedding day, I want…I don’t want– I _didn’t_. Want it to be flashy. Not that jewels are flashy, of course, it’s just–! **’**

“It’s just not you. I understand. You wanted to be radiant, not shiny.”

 _Radiant! That’s the word!_ “Yes! yes, exactly I–!” Filia can’t help the sheer joy of vindication that lights up her person, ironically making her the exact thing she thinks she isn’t – _radiant_. “I have always loved making beautiful things from simple things. I make vases and pots and all kinds of ceramic and porcelain items, so I…I work with clay, obviously, and that’s as simple as it gets really! Earth and water. And then fire of course, later on, but… **’**

“Huh.” Beatrice crosses her arms and leans against a pillar. “Flora wasn’t kidding then.”

“About what?”

“About you having an eye for design.”

There’s a very long pause on Filia’s part, where she has to smother the impulse to burst out laughing in a rather undignified manner. She only barely manages to do so with her blustered,“Oh, well, that’s–!” 

Filia’s features flush once more, but at least this time it’s a healthy, humble pink instead of the crimson burning of shame. “Thank you, Miss d’Cantria, that is especially flattering coming from you! I mean I don’t know if I have an _eye_ , I just…I enjoy what I do.”

“Sometimes, that’s all you need.”

Filia tucks her chin into her chest with a hesitant smile of agreement, instinctively reaching for her son and pulling him close. Val easily falls against her knee, still thoroughly entertained by his toy and happy to know that he isn’t being totally ignored. But he’s been listening very closely. He's watched his mother’s every move and heard her every word. And he has a lot of thinking to do.

So begins this toddler’s scheme to confront the Lesser Beast and Dragon Slayer Xelloss Metallium.

Beatrice’s gaze, meanwhile, slides affectionately over towards the toddler before she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a rectangle of parchment. “Well. If you ever wish to talk shop in terms of design, here is my information. Send me one of your vases. Perhaps we could collaborate on matching collections.”

Filia has to stifle yet another loud and impolite laugh of astonishment, but the thrill of collaborating with a _couture_ _fashion designer_ is too rich for her to resist. “I would be honored, yes! yes, absolutely!”

“Good. Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss…?”

“Filia! I'm so sorry, I completely forgot to introduce myself, yes, Filia Ul Copt!”

“Not a problem at all, Miss Filia Ul Copt.” Beatrice's smile continues to be warmly devastating, even as she turns to make her way back towards her desk. “Have a safe journey home.”

 **“** Y-Yes, thank you!”

________________________________

The road on which they walk is washed with sunlight, and the heat draws birds and butterflies out to flit across their path at regular intervals. Val usually takes the time to point out each one and chase them with boyish vigor, but instead he has been keeping a loyal pace with his mother’s long legs, pensive and quiet. Filia knows that mood. Her jaw tenses, preparing for one of their sticky, but important conversations.

“Mama do you really have a dress like that?”

There it is. Filia answers in a normal, conversational manner, **“** No, love. I don’t.”

“Then how come you lied?” he mildly reprimands. “I thought you weren’t ‘posed to lie!”

“Mn, not to the people you love, no. And in general, too, you are _not_ supposed to lie. But sometimes, things get… _messy_. And you have to lie to strangers in order to protect yourself. I lied this time because sometimes people do not like it when other people have babies without being married, so I had to tread carefully.”

He stares out into the path before them with pouted lips and narrowed eyes, before he lifts his gaze up to his mother once more. “So…so you and Papa _aren’t_ married?”

 **“** No, we are.”

She swallows hard. How quick she’d been with that answer! Xelloss may or may not scold her for that one later, but he’s just a _boy_. And with all their fights, their volatile insults, their miscommunications, he needs stability. _marriage doesn’t mean stability, Filia, it just means you signed a piece of paper!_ His imagined voice in her head is as exasperated with her girlish fantasies as ever, and it hurts because he’s right. She has since learned that the line of love and commitment isn’t defined by marriage but by _real action_. But to say that centuries old habits die hard is a bit of an understatement. Stupid, stupid Filia, dresses and signatures and vows don’t mean anything if there aren’t the actions to back them up. She _has_ that. Xelloss protects both her and Val, what more could she want? How ungrateful. How greedy. In fact, what is it that she contributes to _him_? What use does he have for her that could even give her the _right_ to ask for vows?

_You just want everything to be a fairytale, you naive brat._

One more piece of Filia’s heart is crushed and folded into something small, forced into a box, and put away. Her voice is on an even keel when she finishes her thought.

“It just looks different, that’s all.”

But Val doesn’t miss a beat, squawking with a prissiness he could’ve only learned from his parents, “Then how come you told that lady you weren’t married at the beginning!”

Filia can’t help but let hapless laughter hum in her throat, and she looks down at the benignly frustrated toddler with a knowing smile. That's her baby. Too smart for his own good. “You are a very observant little beastie, aren’t you? Come here.” 

She lifts him into her arms, settling him neatly against her hip. In a very clandestine, conspiratorial manner, she leans in close to finish her answer, nose brushing against his cheek. “Mama made a mistake. I'm not a very good liar, Val. I make mistakes like that very often.”

“Oh…” he furrows his brow. “Well if. If lying is bad, then– that’s okay, right? But then what if– what if when you need to lie to strangers, and then you can’t– you can’t do it?”

“Well _that_ , my little prince,” she says, placing a finger on the tip of his nose. “--is what _Papa_ is for. He is _very_ good at lying to strangers to protect us.”

“Oh, the _bad guys!_ ” Val’s voice is hushed with the awe of a son who _worships_ his father’s ability to fight and to protect his family.

“Yes, the bad guys.”

Filia continues on her way, turning into the narrower path and letting her son rest his head against her shoulder. Normally he is insistent on walking by himself, inspecting rocks, collecting sticks, and generally making a ruckus while being very good about keeping within Filia’s sight. This time, however, he seems to want a safe place to continue thinking and scheming. 

After a while, his voice murmurs against her neck, “Is that what being married means?”

She turns to kiss his temple, sighting their home in the distance. “What does, love?”

His head lifts from her shoulder. “When you’re not…when you’re not good at something but then– then the person who you marry is good at it, so you work like– you work as a team?”

The pride and affection that swells in her chest is enough to bring tears to her eyes, and they refract like sapphires in her gaze as she regards her brilliant, gentle boy. _Oh Valgaav. I hope you know how radiant your soul is. I hope you are at peace here. I hope you know that love can be purifying, too, my precious miracle._ Her forehead butts into his in a distinctly dragon-like manner, one once discouraged by her clan on the basis of trying to navigate away from such animal instincts, but there is nothing else that conveys the love of a mother that is soul-deep.

“That’s a very big part of it, yes, my love. How astute of you.”

“What do you do that Papa’s not good at?”

And with a horrendous whiplash of emotion, Filia feels as though her ribcage has been cracked right at the sternum. As though her son has taken her heart and shattered it against the ground to find the fleshy center of insecurity bleeding within it. Poor Val doesn’t know. He's just curious. Filia swallows hard. She doesn’t have a good answer, in fact, she doesn’t even have a lie either, good _or_ bad. She presses her lips into a line. She’s done it again. Proven that her skull is empty of all things useful and instead filled with the fluff of stupid, imagined dreams.

“…I don’t know, love.” She withdraws a certain piece of rectangular parchment from her satchel and she crushes it in her palm. “You’d have to ask him.”


End file.
